


The clothes make the man

by katiebuttercup



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M, written on iPhone so apologies for the mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has broken into Scotland's house</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Love is a Verb](https://archiveofourown.org/works/629496) by [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten). 



> Dedicated to moonlighten and in honour of "fear the fear' series. It's a fanfic of a fanfic. Set after 'love is a verb"

Disclaimer; literally nothing is mine 

Scotland knows something is wrong the moment he steps into his foyer. The air feels different, he pauses listening to the familiar noises of his home as it settles around him. He can hear a small shuffling sound upstairs and he begins the trek up his narrow staircase wondering who was dumb enough to think he had anything worth stealing. 

The door to his room is ajar and Scotland uses his foot to kick it the rest of the way open, a snarl already on his lips but it dies in his throat when he is confronted with the organised chaos that his room had fallen into rather than just the chaos he had left it in. 

In the middle sits Francis, rummaging through his closet with apparently not a care in the world. 

Scotland's brain goes through several potential openers but his brain is still struggling to catch up so what comes out is;

"What the hell, France?"

Francis looks up completely unperturbed by Scotland's outburst, if anything he is the one that looks affronted by the interruption to his work. 

"You are early,"

Scotland manages to cut off an apology because for fuck sake France has broken into his own house in the middle of the day apparently to rummage through Scotland's meagre closet.

Scotland takes a longer look around when it becomes apparent that France isn't going to answer until he is finished doing whatever the hell it is he is doing. 

There is a disturbingly large pile of his clothes by the door with a dustbin bag thrown haphazardly on top, Scotland can guess the fate of those clothes. On the bed there is a smaller pile of clothes, most he recognises as ones mostly bought by Jersey and at the smarter end of his wardrobe. And next to that several bags sit. 

Scotland takes a peek and can't quite stop the relieved sigh, there are smart shirts and a pair of charcoal trousers but it's mostly jeans and shirts, higher quality then he would usually buy for himself but not to extravagant that he could wear then day to day without feeling like a burke. 

"What's the occasion?"

France sits up in one fluid motion to sit on the bed beside Scotland. 

"You wish to compromise? This is mine."

Scotland groans but finds the sound lodged in his throat half way through as Frances strong fingers close gently but firmly around his chin and jaw. They are unbearably close, it's far more intimate than France has ever been with him in bed or out and Scotland finds himself staring into France's cobalt eyes that are serious and intense. 

Scotland isn't sure what he's supposed to say to break the mood, France is trying to impress something onto him but Scotland can't read it-or he's not quite ready, it wasn't so long ago that he was contemplating throwing in the towel with his relationship with France. 

"I am taking you out tonight," France says, apparently tired of waiting for an answer. 

"Like a date?" 

"Yes Scotland like a date," there is humour lacing France's tone now, intermingled withn warmth. 

"I am well aware that this is a concept almost completely lost to you and your family."

Scotland couldn't deny it both his and England's view on courtship has remained stubbornly stuck in the eighteenth century.

"Where are we going?" Scotland asks as he digs through the bag on the bed. France's mobile goes off and the blond nation slides off the bed, as if he hadn't heard Scotland with little more than a wink.

Scotland sighs, a month ago the phone call would have been one of France's other offers and Scotland would have steeled himself for the inevitable excuse France would make but now...now he trusted France.

He grabs the first thing in the bag and can't ,help the fond smile that graces his lips, the navy blue t shirt has a Loch Ness monster design but unlike the old version this one was an artistic silhouette against a warm sunset. He set the shirt on the bedspread and reached for the jeans. He was about to take his own shirt off to replace it with Nessie but France's voice stopped him. 

"Not the dinosaur one!" 

Scotland scowled but dutifully pulled out a smart shirt. He patted the Nessie shirt  
affectionately. "Maybe next time,"

He still has doubts about continuing this thing with France, but he cant deny that France was slowly slipping underneath his admittedly shaky defences, compromise. 

Huh 

He'd enjoy coming up with a counter compromise for France.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotland made a concession so France reciprocates

In retrospect Scotland should have figured it out sooner but it was Friday night and he'd been in meetings not only with his own minister but with England's. As a result he needed a drink. Badly.

So he'd taken up James's offer to watch the footie down the pub to unwind without thinking about it and when Francis, who had been trapped in his own meetings had agreed to come-with the minimum of fuss he hadn't looked deeper.

It was well into the first half with a few moments to go when he'd finally gone to the loo to relieve himself and he'd just been threading his way back through the crush when he saw James at the bar talking with France but that wasn't what had caught his attention it was the shirt.

 

Or more appropriately the football strip that was revealed as France shrugged off his expensive coat that probably cost more than his mates earned in a year.

France was wearing a footie strip, in his colours.

He looked good, but that wasn't a shock, anything looked good on France but it was how casual France looked in it, in a garment that was the antithesis of who he was but France wore it as if it were the latest fashion in Paris.

France caught his eye and waved him over and numbly Scotland obeyed trying to work out the strange feeling that was uncoiling in his stomach.

He had worn the clothes France had given him because it was unlikely that he would go shopping for himself and Scotland could admit that the clothes were not only stylish but durable. But he had never thought that France would lower his standards to wear something Scotland would.

"James is attempting to explain the off side rule," France said, his tone almost self deprecating as Scotland joined them. He leaned slightly closer so a tiny amount of his weight settled on Scotland's left hand side. It was inconspicuous enough so not to raise suspicious among the less enlightened pub goers but enough so that Scotland could feel it. Scotland tried to keep his face neutral, he still wasn't used to this, to the casual affection that France bestowed on him. It was what he had always wanted but the reality sometimes felt overwhelming. He hadn't quite stopped waiting fir the other shoe to drop and for France to revert to type. It was unfair and Scotland knew it but over a century of being ignored for a better offer had stuck with Scotland.

"Look, it's simple." James said, seemingly unwilling to give up on France just yet. Footie flowed through his blood and the idea someone wasn't as enamoured with it as he was something he couldn't fathom. He gathered the accumulated drinks, the coasters and the tiny bottle of ketchup and started to set them up.

"It's a lost cause mate," Scotland said to James as he reached for the beer sitting on a coaster on the bar. "Trust me it'll give you a headache."  
France made a sound that on anyone else would have been a snort of derision, but the look on his face was soft as he looked at Scotland.

James sighed, "fine, I give up tonight, catch up when yer finished making eyes at each other." Grabbing his pint James wondered off into the crowd as a roar of triumph erupted. For a moment Scotland opened his mouth to counter James's assumptions but faltered when he felt France wind his fingers through his own on the bar.

"I am not finished "making eyes" France said answering the question on Scotland's face.

"What's with the strip?" Scotland said unable to keep silent on the subject. France shrugged.

"You made a concession to your wardrobe and I felt that it was only fair that I did the same. James was quite instructive."

"You went shopping for football shirts with James?" Scotland asked.

"It was that or asking England and she seemed...occupied." A sour look fell over Francis' face and Scotland couldn't help but laugh.

"She laughed her arse off didn't she?"

"It seems inappropriate humour runs in your blood, Ecosse."

That was enough of a "yes" for Scotland, and he squeezed France's hand. "Thanks I know its stupid but it...." Unable to out his thoughts into words without feeling like an idiot he trailed off. France apparently back to his old humour smiled.

"We should find seats before the game finishes and James attempts to teach me the off side rule again." France said.

Scotland grabbed their drinks but paused, "didn't England teach you the offside rule in no mans land?"

France nodded as he seamlessly threaded his way through the crowd to the nest of seats at the back where James sat.

"Yes. But he seemed so insistent I didn't like to interrupt."

The warm feeling returned, spreading through his chest at France's kindness, he cleared his throat and dived further into the mesh of people hoping that the burning on his face would disappear by the time they sat down. If the look in James's face was anything to go by he failed. Miserably.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [First Step](https://archiveofourown.org/works/987477) by [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten)




End file.
